


Turn (In Love With The Way You Make Me Wait)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [9]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Breathplay, Collars, Confessions, Consensual Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Exploration, Love, M/M, Memories, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Protectiveness, Sexual Content, Trust, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which some fantasies Michael's never known he had get fulfilled. Plus James admitting a few more details about his past "relationship," some protective Michael, and a lot of mutual love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn (In Love With The Way You Make Me Wait)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, now THIS is the most impressive porn in this series. But still with all the Emotions, because I can't write porn without Emotions, it seems. Title from Eve 6’s “Hokis”.

It had, Michael thought, been more or less a perfect night.

They’d both had the afternoon off from filming—not, in fact, a normal occurrence, and it’d probably never happen again in their lives—and he’d managed to make a few phone calls, and surprise James with something that was almost an actual date, something else they hardly ever managed to do, considering the punishing film schedule. The morning had been unseasonably rainy, but even the weather had decided to cooperate, and had cleared up, for a few hours, to accommodate them, very thoughtfully.

There’d been steak. And champagne, which James adored and rarely ordered for himself, because he ended up laughing and giddily happy and effervescent as the bubbles themselves.

Michael had found himself, at one point, just watching bemusedly, as James entered into a elated conversation with their waiter about the exciting attributes of bubbles in a champagne flute. He was in love with someone who could become gleefully rhapsodic about carbonation and sparkling wine, he thought, and caught himself grinning. Of course he was. And that was perfect. In every conceivable way.

After dinner, James had kissed him, on the street corner, sparkling and bright as the champagne, in a way that’d been a suggestion; Michael had kissed him back, and said “Yes, but not yet, one more thing,” and walked him around the corner to the tiny coffee shop he’d discovered earlier and bribed with an excessive amount of money and a mention of James’s name, and had watched sapphire eyes light up at the scent of gingerbread in the air.

“You found me a gingerbread latte! In September! Have I mentioned that I love you? Because I do. You’re my favorite boyfriend ever.”

“I certainly hope so,” Michael had retorted, which had made James laugh again, still slightly tipsy and clinging to his coffee cup with both delightedly protective hands. “I thought you wanted to go back to the hotel…”

“Oh, absolutely! Because I get to have sex with you at the hotel! Though…right now I have a gingerbread latte. So you might have to wait.”

The girl behind the register now looked like she was trying not to laugh, or, possibly, run around the counter and hug James with all her might. Michael just sighed, and decided he couldn’t really blame her. James, ecstatically happy on champagne and holiday-flavored coffee, was everything adorable in the universe, he knew that, and the universe knew that, too. So he couldn’t exactly fault anyone else for noticing.

“Are you saying that coffee takes priority over me? Because I might have to be concerned about this relationship, James.”

“Oh, no,” James had said, eyes wide, “you bought it for me, so you love me, so I have to appreciate it, because you love me, and I love you, and also afterwards you can do that thing you like, with the—”

“All right, we’re going back to the hotel _now_.”

And they had. And James had tasted like gingerbread, to his exploring tongue, and had laughed again, when Michael had pushed him down into the mound of pillows—honestly, there seemed to be more of them every day, as if they’d been multiplying in the night—and had slid inside him, for the first time that night, and they’d come together, unplanned but in completely flawless unison.

The second time, Michael had tugged James onto his lap, said, “All right, this isn’t because I think you deserve it, or because you need to be punished, or anything, I really just want to spank you, I’ve wanted to do this since you said so on the way back here, in the cab, is that okay,” and James had grinned up at him and said “Yes, sir.”

Even better, that time. James had practically purred, after, lazy and contented and boneless as a cat, stretched out in the cotton embrace of the sheets, the curves of his ass still barely pink.

Michael had tried, half on purpose, half because he couldn’t help it, to be gentle. He couldn’t keep himself from remembering the last time, the week before. James had tried to say he’d been fine, but that had been too much, and they both knew it; looking down at newly-pink skin presented for his touch, he’d seen, again, the memory of James nearly unconscious after one last exhausted orgasm, pushed too hard, too intense, and he hadn’t been able to go very far, this time. Not tonight.

He lay there, comfortable in the post-interlude afterglow, and listened to the wind picking up, out in the night, and heard James yawn and bury himself beneath layers of down-filled blankets, and also Michael’s closest arm and leg. “I think it’s gotten colder, in here…”

“That does happen at night.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Is it going to rain, again?”

“Probably.”

“Good. I like rain.”

“I know you do.” James liked rain, in the same way that cats liked rain: when he could be inside, curled up in the cozy warmth, with coffee and blankets and a book or a script or a movie, listening to the patter of drops splashing down outside, companionably.

Michael liked the cold, of course—he always had—but he’d happily sit inside and keep James company, too. Any time.

At least James never minded, if he wanted to open a window and let in the crisp bite of the storm-flavored air. James would just smile at him, and find another blanket for himself, and kiss him, when Michael tried to untangle him from all the layers, later on.

James yawned again. “So…thank you. I meant to say that, earlier, but you distracted me.”

“I didn’t think you minded, and for what?”

“I didn’t, and you know. The evening. The gingerbread. The sex. All of it. Pretty much my ideal night, you realize.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Hmm. Thank you more, then. So I feel like I should fulfill some secret fantasy of yours, now. As a demonstration of gratitude. Anything you’d like?”

“You already do.” True. “I can’t honestly think of anything else. Not now.”

“Nothing? Not even any other extra-secret purchases you’ve not told me about?” James rolled over, amused and teasing and curious, and leaned down to peer into the depths of their familiar and mostly-excavated box, sitting innocuously beside the bed.

“N—wait, yes, actually, don’t—” No. Oh no. Please no. Damn. He jumped to his feet, but too slowly; James had already slid off the bed and was standing there gazing, rather astonishedly, at the scrap of leather in his fingers. “Really?”

“Oh, god, no, you don’t have to—I wasn’t going to ask—” He’d bought it just because. Because they’d been filming in different locations for far too long, and he’d been browsing the dangerous depths of the internet, which he should never do ever again, and thinking terrible thoughts, missing James like hell and waking up every morning from very detailed fantasies involving things he would never, ever ask for in real life, and he’d just seen it there and added it to the other purchases out of some dark and perverse impulse, picturing black leather against pale skin, the line of the collar encircling that graceful throat and trapping all the golden freckles in place, and he’d bought it along with everything else because he couldn’t help himself, with that image swimming in the depths of thoughts that had nothing to do with his brain.

He hadn’t ever meant to ask. He’d swear to that if James would like him to. He couldn’t make James do that. He’d never even known he wanted to. Had never known he could want anything like that.

He might hate himself, a little bit, he decided.

“Well…” James drifted back over to the bed and sat down, slowly, contemplating the streak of blackness, the small buckle that would hold leather in place, around his neck. “You really _did_ buy everything…”

“I’m so sorry.” He still couldn’t tell what James might be thinking; the too-blue eyes hadn’t glanced up, or anywhere near his direction, yet. He wanted to sit down, too, to put an arm around those astonished shoulders, but James wasn’t looking at him, and so he couldn’t. Instead he just hovered there, standing beside the bed, gazing at that bent head.

He felt too tall, abruptly, for the abruptly-encroaching walls of the formerly luxurious hotel room. And awkward, in a way he could never remember being, ever, around James. And terrified, but that one went without saying.

Behind the windowpane, separated from them by sheets of glass, the starlight crackled, in the newly frosty air. The moon hid itself from view, wrapped up bashfully in the earliest-arriving clouds. It didn’t want to witness this, he thought.

“I think—I just—I’ve never done any of this before, you know that, never except for you, and you’re so amazing, you are, you already let me—I mean, everything we’ve already done has been—and I don’t fucking know why I bought that, I’m sorry, I promise I wasn’t going to make you—”

“But you thought about it?”

“I—maybe I did. Once. Or twice. But not seriously—I would never actually ask you to—”

James took a deep breath, slid off the bed, settled down on both knees in front of him, and held it out.

“You can, then. If you still want to.”

For a second he couldn’t answer. But he had to. He had to say something. “James. No. You can’t—I can’t make you do this. Not for me. Please get up.”

James sighed. Stayed in place. And, amazingly, even smiled, a tiny hint of amusement creeping in despite the seriousness of those depthless sapphire eyes. “You’re not making me do this. I’m offering. And that’s why I’m offering, you know.”

“You…I think you might have to explain that one for me. Please.”

“I do believe you. I know you wouldn’t ask me for this. So you don’t have to. I love you. And I trust you. And it’s all right. All right?”

“No…” He couldn’t. Could he? James was still smiling and still on both knees waiting for him and Michael wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think, now, or to want. What he might be allowed to want.

“I mean it. I promise I’ll tell you, if I feel uncomfortable at all. Ever. The second I’m the least bit nervous.”

At which Michael had to laugh, hollowly. “You’re not now?” He was.

The infinite blue of those eyes turned thoughtful for a second, and then James said, sounding a little surprised, “Not really. Maybe a little. But I do trust you. And, ah…” The pause contained a tiny lip-lick; Michael held his breath, because that was a very recognizable little motion, and James couldn’t really be about to say what Michael was imagining, could he?

“I might not be entirely opposed to…I mean, I think I could…I’m not explaining this well, am I?”

“Not exactly…no…I think you could explain more.” Please. One of them had to.

“Oh, fuck,” James muttered, almost under his breath; he’d started blushing, pinkness spreading sneakily across all the freckles, even to those perfect ears, or what of them was visible beneath all the hair. “All right, well…this is one hundred percent your fault, you know, because I’d never even imagined doing this before, except now I _am_ imagining it, and you make me want to trust you and I love you and you love me and I’m wondering what it would feel like to have you put this on me, and I think I might like to find out, not in public, obviously, but with you, right now, here, and so, will you please say something before I die of embarrassment admitting this to you?”

“You…you _want_ me to…”

“I just said so!”

“You—James—you know I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“No, I mean…I really, really love you. I—you wanting to do this for me, you wanting this, just—you, and I don’t know how to—you’re incredible, James, and I love you so fucking much, always. You do know that, right?”

“Yes,” James said, and grinned at him, “I do. And now can you hurry up and do this, before I decide I’m going to be embarrassed after all?”

“Are you _sure_ —”

“Michael, will you just stop talking and come here and put the damn collar on me?”

“Jesus,” Michael said, once he could remember how to shape words, and then, “ _James_ ,” and then, “Okay, all right, we can do this. Stand up, please.”

“You—”

“I’m not doing this with you on your knees. Stand up.”

“Mmm. Is that an order?”

“Yes?”

“Then all right.” James got up, one smoothly graceful motion, as if he’d just been waiting for that. As if he were perfectly relaxed, all supple limbs and the scattered punctuation of freckles, mysterious undiscovered countries outlined on the map of all that adventurous skin by the hide-and-seek moonlight.

“Here.”

They could do this. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

Oh god, he so very much wanted to do this.

He reached out. Lifted rumpled hair out of the way. It flicked up to play with his fingers, impudently. James was watching his face, in the pale yellow light, not his hands.

Just one fastening. Simple, really.

He didn’t ask whether he’d made it too tight, or tight enough. Somehow they both just knew. It _fit_.

He stood there for a second, hand resting on the collar, after. And then, very slowly, moved that hand away. Tried not to let it shake, on the way.

James swallowed. Didn’t speak. Just brought his own hand up and traced fingers along the line of black leather, freckles shining in the amber lamplight.

“Are you—all right?”

“Yes.” James shut his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them. The blueness framed black pupils, dark and astonished, moonlight falling over midnight oceans. “Can I see? What this looks like, I mean?”

“Of course you can.” He didn’t know why he was whispering. But so was James; the familiar coziness of that accent, even hushed, lit up all the silent corners of the room. “Yes. Of course. Come here.”

He walked them both over to the mirror, over the table at the side wall, and stood in front of it, next to James. Their reflections gazed back, silver-tinted, spellbound. James touched the collar again, white skin and black leather and auburn hair curling around the base of his neck, over curious fingertips.

The light, behind them, cast wavering shadows, backlighting like old golden portrait frames, and Michael couldn’t tell, watching those endless eyes, what James might be thinking.

He wanted to touch, too. Wanted to run a finger along that new adornment, joining James’s curious own explorations, or at the very least to put a hand on one shoulder, inches below his. But he just didn’t know.

Blue eyes met his, in the mirror. “Funny…”

“What?”

“I didn’t…I’d not thought it would make that big a difference, honestly. I mean, we’ve—you know all the things we’ve done. Practically everything else either of us could think of. I thought—we both already know I’m yours…”

“But?”

“But it does make a difference.” James turned around to look at him, in person this time, not through the outwardly-imposed distance of the mirror. “I feel…I don’t know how to explain. I’m sorry. It’s just…different.”

Michael abruptly became aware that he’d been holding his breath; his lungs were starting to protest the lack of air. But he couldn’t quite remember how to fill them again. “Is different…good?”

James smiled. Licked those lips, in the topaz shine of the light, and just looked at him, for a second, eyes bright. “Yes.”

“…yes?”

“Really yes.”

“Really?”

At which James sighed, ran a mildly exasperated hand through his hair, glanced down and then back up, and then touched the edge of the collar one more time, a reminder, running a fingertip along the line where leather met skin. Michael followed the movement, enchanted; James watched him watching, smiled again, and said, quietly, “Yes, sir.”

“Oh my god.”

“No, still me.”

“You—you—I fucking love you. Okay. Um. On your knees?”

This got him a raised eyebrow; Michael reviewed his sentence, and, with some effort, located a more appropriate tone. “On your knees, James. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” James said, and dropped to his knees, promptly. Michael swallowed. Stared. Looked at James looking up at him, wide-eyed and bathed in golden light, kneeling in front of him on the frighteningly floral hotel-room carpet. His. His in every single imaginable way.

James was still smiling. Leaned forward, a little, and licked Michael’s cock once, a single sweep of that talented tongue. And then stopped.

“James…”

A grin. Another lick. Another pause.

“Are you doing this _on purpose?”_

James laughed. “Maybe. You didn’t sound very assertive, about it, just now. I thought I should help you figure out whether you really wanted—”

That sentence got cut off, because Michael plunged one hand into his hair, yanked him closer, and thrust, hard.

James moaned once, softly, around his cock, but it wasn’t in protest. Pleasure, Michael thought. At the roughness.

He wound fingers more deeply into the hair, wrapping it around his fingers. Held James in place, and thrust more deeply, this time. And then again, when James gasped. “You fucking tease, James. You knew what I was asking you for. So now you don’t get to move.”

Jesus, was that his voice, saying those things? Wanting to claim James as his, to prove exactly what that collar meant, for both of them? The words echoed around the room, like an impact, a seismic shift, the weight of his hand on James’s head.

But James didn’t seem to mind; the eyes were wide, shocked but not objecting, and he wasn’t trying to get away, or push back, at all. If he had, Michael would have stopped, instantly; would have stopped everything, if James wanted that, or moved on to something else.

But he didn’t. And when Michael pulled back, giving him a chance to speak up, to say no, or stop, he didn’t do that, either. Just licked those lips, tongue sweeping out in enticing invitation.

Michael let out a growl of sheer primal _want_ , at that. Pushed back in, further, inexorably, not letting up, and making James fight for air. Tears glistened in those splendid eyes, now, hovering right at the edges but not falling yet. Not quite. And when he glanced lower, he could see how hard James was, cock pressed up into his stomach and flushed with arousal.

“You like this, don’t you? My hand on you, keeping you still, making you take everything. Making you take all of me.” James was breathing fast now, desperate, and the eyes slid shut, for a second.

“I could fuck you right here. Would you enjoy that? Not on the bed, James. Here. On the floor. While I hold you down. And you would love it.”

The eyes flew open again, enormous and expectant, and James’s hips jerked forward, helplessly, seeking relief and not finding any in the intangible caress of the air.

“Of course, you don’t seem to be very good at obeying orders. Maybe you don’t deserve that. Maybe I shouldn’t let you come, at all, now. What would you think of that?”

James was trembling, now, partly from the strain of their respective positions, and partly from the words. Michael wouldn’t really do that to him, would never be that cruel, and James, in more lucid moments, knew that too; but right now James wasn’t registering anything except the sensations, and the sound of Michael’s voice.

“ _Mine_ , James,” he said, very softly, and thrust, hard, making James gag and gasp and fight to accommodate the length, mouth all stretched and gleaming wetly, messy and elemental and obscene and beautiful.

Different, James had said, about the collar. But in a good way. About possession. A tangible, ceremonial, sensuous reminder, marking James as _his_.

His. Still fantastic, that. James wanted to be his. Wanted to give him this. Had offered to give him _this_ , even this, something he’d never even fantasized about, until he’d thought that possibly, just possibly, it could happen.

This time he dragged the hand through all that hair and down to the nape of James’s neck, feeling the smoothness of leather against his hand. James made a sound, one he’d never heard before, and instantly needed to hear again.

“Is that a yes, then? You want me to fuck you again, like this? You wearing my collar?”

James breathed something that might’ve been his name, eyes closing, the sound raw and pleading, but not precisely a yes or no; Michael pulled back and used two fingers to lift that chin and get James to glance at him. “Answer me, please.”

Before speaking, James licked his lips, again, as if tasting the presence of Michael’s cock, on his skin, on his tongue. “Yes, sir.”

“Even though I’ve already had you twice tonight? And you might be sore, tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir. Please. And I—I don’t mind. About that. Being sore. From you.”

Michael hesitated, at that. “James? Come up for a second, please.” James was still talking, and—mostly—coherent, and clearly they needed to have a discussion about the rules for this, again. And they needed to do that while James could still process the reasons for said rules.

He waited; James blinked once, and then a second time, and the enormous eyes regained a little bit of focus. “Okay…”

“I’m not comfortable with—I don’t want you to say yes to anything that’s going to leave you in pain. During, or after. Understand?”

“Yes…”

“But you want to argue?” He could hear the disagreement, in the pause that followed that reply.

“But I think you’re being too careful. We both end up sore all the time, after filming. It’s never been any worse than that.”

“I know we do. That’s different.”

“How?”

“Neither of us can do anything about that. That’s just the job. And it’s both of us. But this is about what I’m doing to you. And I don’t want you to let me hurt you. Ever. All right?”

“All right…”

“Would it help if I made it an order?”

“Um, maybe. At least I’d try to remember. Do you mind?”

“It _is_ an order, then. Don’t ever say yes to anything if you think you might end up in pain. At any point. And tell me if you’re thinking that, too. Better?”

“Yes. About this time, though…it’s fine. I’m actually not—you were pretty gentle, earlier. Earlier tonight, I mean. You could do more.”

“Oh. Not enough?”

“Not _not_ enough. But what you were doing just now…”

“You liked that? I was—that wasn’t too rough, for you?”

“Well…I might like that. Sometimes.” James smiled, and the yellow light danced around the gleaming outline of those wet lips. “Not all the time. But right now, it was good.”

“More, then?”

“More, please. Sir.”

More. His hand, keeping James in place. His cock, sliding in and out of that glorious mouth, leaving James breathless and helpless and well-used, taking everything that James gave up to him, and more. Making James belong to him, and _know_ it, every inch, every sensation that James would feel later, and was asking for now.

He caught a hint of motion; James had started to slip one hand forward, trying to touch himself, craving some sort of relief. Maybe he knew Michael would notice; maybe he didn’t, or maybe he didn’t care, by now.

But in any of those scenarios, of course, Michael would notice, and would care. Because there were rules, after all. They both knew that. And James touching himself, seeking release that wasn’t given, definitely broke those rules.

Especially now.

“James?”

James gasped, around his cock; breathed, “I’m sorry, sir, I needed—” and Michael tugged on the hair, tipped that head back, making James look up at him. James trembled; the eyelashes swept downward, hiding blue oceans from view.

“All mine, James. You know that. That’s what this is _for_.”

“Yes—”

“Hands behind your back. Keep them there.”

“Yes, sir…” James moved the hands. Didn’t look at him.

“Was that what you wanted? You knew I’d see you.”

“I—”

“I could put you in handcuffs, for this. Do you want that? You seem to need them.”

He ran a hand along one cheek, finding the damp traces of escaped tears; James gasped again. Shivered. “Sir, I’m sorry, I—”

“That’s not what I asked you. Do you want me to handcuff you, here on the floor, and make you suck my cock, James? Until I come, all over you?”

James swallowed. Wet lips moved, skimming around the shape of an answer, but no sound made it out, then.

“You did ask me for more, you know. You said this was good, for you. And you’re not helping yourself, here. Not answering.”

A whisper, so faint he could barely hear it: “Yes, sir.”

And that was almost right, so near the response he’d been pushing James toward, that last capitulation, leaving James so pliable in his hands, shattering him into all those vulnerable pieces and telling him, when James couldn’t do anything except believe his voice, just how much Michael cherished each one.

But it wasn’t right. Not quite. Something off-balance, between them.

The summer-ocean eyes weren’t meeting his, he realized. That was it. James didn’t seem able to look at him.

He paused. “James? Look at me.”

James tried; the blue gaze lifted, found his face, and then flickered away. Michael did stop, then, frowning a little. “James, please. Are you all right?”

James didn’t answer. Just turned his head, enough to lean into Michael’s hand. The eyes stayed averted, too.

“Is something wrong? You have to tell me, if there’s anything.” He’d seen James speechless before, of course; he was learning how to anticipate those moments, the silences of transcendent want and pleasure and obedience, every last bit of control surrendered, freely. And Michael would’ve sworn, looking at him now, that James was there already. But he’d never seen James fall into that faraway space so completely, and so fast. And the burning-sapphire eyes couldn’t come to settle on his.

Abruptly he felt the unwelcome tapping of worry’s chilly fingers, against his bare skin.

“James, I want you to look at me. Now.” The phrasing—it _was_ an order, this time, because at least that ought to work—did get James to look up, but when their eyes met, James flinched. Glanced down.

Fuck, Michael thought, and then thought it again, because he couldn’t find any other words. Had he done something wrong? Said something that’d hurt James, somehow? James would have told him. Had agreed to tell him. But James wasn’t exactly rational, right now.

He breathed in. Tried to stay calm. Tried to make the words as simple, as easy to understand, as possible. “Okay. I need to talk to you. And I know you can hear me, you told me you could, so, please. I love you. And I need you to tell me what’s going on. So I’m going to stop touching you, just for a minute. Not because I don’t want to touch you, or because you’ve done anything wrong. I do, and you didn’t. But I’m worried. And I do love you. All right?”

He lifted the hand away from James’s cheek, slowly, making certain it felt like a caress. The warmth of all that skin lingered on his fingertips and palm, after, as if wanting to keep him company.

James sighed. Blinked, eyelashes whispering across pale skin, beneath all the light. Shivered. Stayed put, on his knees, but breathed in, deeply, once, twice. Coming back, Michael thought, and practically shivered himself, with the suddenness of relief.

“Can you talk, yet? And also I love you.” Reminders. Reaffirmations. In case James needed to be told so even more clearly, one more time, and then again.

A smile, small and quiet and genuinely sincere; James seemed to be reassembling collapsed fortifications, briefly, and then he _did_ look up, and Michael stopped holding his own breath in an explosive rush of air. Thank god.

“I love you, too,” James said, carefully but clearly, and somehow Michael found himself down there on the stupid carpet, too, kneeling on top of an opulently fuzzy rose-and-vine explosion. He hadn’t even noticed himself move. But he didn’t want to be on his feet for this, not while James was still on his knees.

“Can I touch you, again? Is that—all right? You won’t—”

“You can. I would like that.”

He reached out. Wrapped both arms around James. Pulled James into his lap, and then just sat there on the hideous but hospitable carpet, holding on. Outside, the wind flirted with the stormclouds, tugging them back overhead; the sweet silvery smell of rain, not quite a presence but a promise, blew in, through the night.

“You did hear me, right? You know why we stopped?”

“Yes. You said you were worried. And I couldn’t look at you.”

“Good. So…can you tell me? Please?”

James hesitated. Hunted for words; they came gradually, as if figuring out how to speak, how to describe those still-vivid sensations, was difficult. “It was…too intense, sir. I can’t—I’m not—I mean, I’m yours, I can’t—you’re the one giving me orders. And I was…I don’t know.”

The words brushed gently against his shoulder, carried on encouraging little puffs of breath; when James shifted position, in his arms, a lock of hair tumbled over one eye. Michael freed one hand and smoothed it back and saw James smile, at the gesture. So he left the hand there, playing cautiously with all the happy auburn waves, and heard—and felt, all through both their bodies—the corresponding hum of contentment.

“It wasn’t deliberate. I didn’t think about—I _wasn’t_ thinking. But it wasn’t anything you did. Or it was, but it wasn’t anything that felt wrong. I just…it felt like too much, to look at you, then. Too sensitive. Me, I mean. Not physically, though. If that makes sense. And you were fantastic, honestly—I think it was just instinctive, that reaction. Or something. I’m sorry.”

Michael found himself unable to answer, immediately. That reply did make some sort of sense—a kind of sideways elliptical sense, not logical but true regardless—but he didn’t like it. James, inarguably, was the strongest person Michael’d ever met, and despite their roles here in the bedroom, he’d never thought of James as anything less than his equal, or, in all honesty, an even better person than Michael himself. Anything else had never even occurred to him.

He didn’t mind James being submissive, in these moments—hell, they both _loved_ James being submissive for him, he knew that much with absolute conviction—but there was submission, and then there was subservience. Very different ideas. And they were drifting far too close to the latter.

“Was that—is this something you’ve—felt, or done, before? I mean…”

“You mean… _before_. Then. With—not with you.”

“Yes.”

“Um…yes, and no.” James caught his lower lip between his teeth, momentarily. Found additional words, a little more easily, this time. “I’ve never worn a collar for anyone else. I told you. The eye contact…all right, if I’m going to say this you can’t be angry about it.”

“James…”

“Before I tell you…it isn’t the same. I mean that. What happened just now was—I trust you. Completely. And it was all me, this time; because I was feeling overwhelmed. In a good way, though. I swear.”

“Go on. Please.” He was unintentionally holding his breath, waiting. He couldn’t make his lungs work. Like the rest of him, they were petrified, because he had a feeling that he knew what James was going to say, and every centimeter of his body had frozen in preemptive furious shock.

“All right…so…when I said yes and no…he, um. That was one of the rules. That I shouldn’t make eye contact, or look up, unless he told me I could. Because I wasn’t supposed to—we weren’t equals. It should’ve been habit, but I wasn’t all that good at it; I kept needing to look, to know what was—what he might be, um, planning. He was never very happy with me, for that, and—well. Anyway. So…yes, but also no. Not the same.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Michael said, and then went on until, after a few colorful minutes, he ran out of adjectives.

“You said you wouldn’t be angry about it.”

“ _You_ said I wouldn’t be angry about it. I _am_.” Not at James. Never at James. At the person who could ask James to do that, who could convince James—James, of all people, someone who knew the names of every extra on set and who remembered to ask interviewers how _their_ days had been going—that he was unimportant, or, worse, a disappointment. That person who could, even now, make James leave spaces in those sentences, broken holes and unfilled gaping lacunae that opened up windows to long-ago wounds.

No wonder James had always had a hard time believing the words, every time Michael’d tried to explain how perfect he was, how amazing, how much he deserved to be happy, to be loved.

The approaching breeze cried, hauntingly, at the edges of the window; the clouds, out in the night, had arrived. They floated in and obscured all the lights, beyond the curtains, isolating the hotel room, a little island of lamplight and plushly-woven carpet, a fortress against the dark. Maybe that would be enough, he thought, and laced his fingers through the slim freckled ones that fit so perfectly in his own.

James shook his head. Met Michael’s outraged eyes with his own, purposefully; the ocean depths remained reassuringly calm, despite the raw-edged ripples of memory, and utterly truthful. “You don’t need to be. It’s a long time over. I hadn’t even thought about it, really, until you asked the question; it’s never been like that, with you. And you wouldn’t ask me for that—”

“Of course I fucking wouldn’t!”

“I know. I do know. Like I said, I trust you. And I love you. Just now, it was only because looking at you felt too intense, not because of anything else. I was—that went further than I’d expected. And faster, getting there. And more…exposed, maybe. Because I was so much _yours_. But I wanted that. I still want that. Does that help?”

“Maybe. Like…last time, afterwards? When you couldn’t look at me, right away? I know you didn’t feel like talking, then, either. For a few minutes, anyway.”

That question earned a single immediate nod of agreement; Michael took a deep breath, and discovered that he could almost make it a steady one, this time. “That _was_ afterwards, though. I know you felt—I mean, I don’t know _how_ you felt, not exactly, but I saw you—but this is still different. We’re in the middle of things. I don’t want you to not look at me when we’re in the middle of things.”

James thought about that, for a while; Michael held him a little more closely, listening to each inhale and exhale, the two of them breathing in unison now, James being happy in his arms and willing to have the discussion and not sounding at all afraid. Of anything, present or past.

“I can try. I didn’t expect it, this time; it honestly was just…instinct. But I should’ve been better about listening to you. You did make it an order. And I knew you were concerned.”

“Was it because of this?” He ran fingertips along the dark line of the collar, still securely in place around that graceful throat. “Is it asking too much? Because we can take it off.”

“No. Well…sort of, to your first question. I did tell you it felt different. But it wasn’t—isn’t, really; you have no idea how much effort it’s taking to come up with complete sentences, by the way—it’s partly that, but not all of it. You being so, um…forceful, earlier…and then bringing me back out of it, talking to me, and then back down again, and you touching me…well, like you’re touching me now…”

“Oh. Still?”

“It never really went away. But you asked me to explain. And if you keep your hand there, that’s not likely to be possible much longer.”

“Hmm. Are you all right, though? You did say you were feeling…sensitive.” He left the hand where it was; when James swallowed, he felt the motion under his palm, through all the leather. “If we try again, is it going to be too much for you?”

“I…don’t think so. I’ll tell you if it is. But can you…if you want me to keep talking you should stop doing…what you’re doing now. Or you can tell me we’re going to try again, but…”

“You want me to make the decision?”

“Yes. Please.” James shivered. Might’ve been from the effort of trying to talk. Or in response to Michael’s other hand making its way between those disproportionately long legs. Either way, the sensation—James moving against him, both of them still very naked and entwined on the floor—ignited all that want, again, slow-burning desire in the pit of his stomach, and lower.

“If we’re doing this, I want you to look at me. At least when I tell you to, if you think you can’t, on your own. Is that all right?” Some sort of compromise, he thought. They could both manage that.

James nodded. And then surprised him. Put one hand into Michael’s hair and tugged him down into an astonished kiss. “Yes.”

“You,” Michael told him, when he could find his voice again, “you’re fucking incredible, James,” and James laughed, and shook his head again, but he was smiling, too.

“Yes, you are. All right, then. Can you stand up? Or do you want me to carry you?”

“What?”

“Bed, James. I’m not actually going to have sex with you on the floor.”

“Oh.”

“Are you seriously disappointed by that?”

“Um…not really. But you did mention, earlier…and I might’ve been picturing…”

“No. I have plans for you, and they don’t involve rug burn. And if you don’t answer the original question, then I’m going to assume I should carry you.”

“Plans? And, you wouldn’t—oh, come on, you’re not really—!”

“I did warn you.”

“Hmm.” James didn’t bother to protest, though. Just put his head on Michael’s shoulder, and let himself be transported to the bed. Which meant that he was, despite the not-quite-annoyed initial reaction, feeling in need of the support.

Which was fine, too, of course. Michael thought about that, while settling James, carefully, into the still-crumpled nest of sheets, from earlier. The fabric welcomed them back, gleefully. It probably wasn’t as excited as he was.

He did reevaluate his initial mostly-formed ideas, about James and not listening to his orders right away and spankings, though. James had even said so himself, and no doubt wouldn’t mind, but that would be asking too much; not punishment, not for anything, not tonight, not now. Not when James was lying there awaiting Michael’s pleasure, like some decadent sacrificial offering, a treasury of white skin and gold freckles and that single brand of ownership forming one black streak in all the light, and not speaking, but smiling, faintly, instead.

Especially not when James stayed put, in exactly the position in which Michael’d set him down. They both knew that that was because Michael hadn’t given him permission to move.

The glow from the lamps, perched peacefully on their bedside tables, wandered out into the disarrayed sheets. Poured light across wrinkled cotton and pale skin. Picked out all the highlights in unruly hair, and then met the dark line of encircling leather, and let itself be absorbed.

James licked his lips, waiting; Michael asked, softly, “You were…you were enjoying yourself, earlier, right? You liked me being more…forceful, you said,” and got another prompt nod. Confirmation. Not only about the question, but about the fact that James could hear him. Good.

“All right. Hands above your head, on the pillow. No moving, unless I give you an order. No arguing, either, when I compliment you. And tell me if anything’s worrying you, or hurting you, at all. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Interesting. “You can still talk?”

“I thought you wanted me to answer. Sir.”

“I do. I just thought—you surprised me. It’s fine. Yes, I want you to answer, if I ask you questions. If you can. If not, you can nod. As long as you let me know you’ve understood. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. Can I ask you about something, though?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not…you were right, earlier, about how many times it’s been already, and I…I don’t mind if it’s you, but can we not do the thing you sometimes like to do with me and the vibrator? Please.”

“We won’t, then. Not tonight. And thank you for asking.” He hadn’t been planning on that, anyway; he’d considered it, briefly, much earlier, and discarded the idea. But he was glad James had felt secure enough to bring it up. That meant something. It meant a lot, in fact.

“Well, you did say I should. And you kind of implied I wouldn’t be able to talk, later…”

“Yes, I did. Anything else? While we’re here?”

“Not that I can think of, no. Sir.”

“Good.” He sat there next to James, on the bed, surrounded by the crisply bright scent of impending rain and the cozy radiance of the hotel room, and looked into blue eyes, and touched one fingertip to the elegant line of that throat, landing on a near-invisible cluster of freckles just above the collar, faint as distant stars.

James looked up, back at him, and didn’t move, but just like that, the atmosphere in the room changed. Shifted. Grew hotter.

Michael trailed his finger to the left, over delicate skin, and found the next small grouping of freckles, waiting for his explorations. Let the silence build, for a minute. Watched the rise and fall of James’s chest, more rapid now, but not out of anything resembling concern.

“I do like your mouth. I was enjoying that, earlier, too. In fact, I think we should go back to that—” And then, as James started to move, “No. Stay here. I didn’t tell you to get up, did I?”

James blinked, expression somewhere between bewilderment and sudden anxiety; Michael could guess where both of those were coming from, and tapped fingers against the closest cheek, not quite a reprimand.

“Stop that. You didn’t do anything wrong; my fault for not being clear. I want you to stay on the bed. I want you like this, James.”

James needed a second, but then the eyes lit up: comprehension. Michael grinned, mostly because he couldn’t help it. Because the anxiety had vanished, from that gaze, replaced by excitement.

He got into position, too. Kneeling, over James. Who licked his lips, one more time, and then, cooperatively, opened his mouth before Michael could instruct him to do exactly that.

“Feeling eager, are you?” He didn’t give James time to answer. Just pushed forward, feeling the wet heat of those glorious lips closing around him.

In this position, James couldn’t move, much; couldn’t protest, or pull back, when Michael thrust harder, down into his throat, making James take all of him in. Fucking that beautiful mouth, feeling James struggle to accommodate him, helplessly, but clearly wanting more; Michael felt each stroke of that tongue, each moment of pressure when James tried to suck and lick and pull him in deeper. If James wanted that, he was more than happy to oblige, he decided. More forceful, then.

James gasped. Tried to breathe; couldn’t, not well. Michael pulled back, just far enough to let him have air, and then pushed in again, making James choke around his cock, messy and slick and uncontrolled, now, tears welling up in those eyes when Michael thrust all the way into his throat, trembling everywhere now. But he moaned, the sound ragged and needy and despairing, as if it’d come from someplace deep and hungry inside, when Michael paused to let him catch a vital breath of air again.

“So damn gorgeous,” Michael told him, softly, “like this. All mine. Coming apart, letting me watch you, everything, so perfect, for _me_ ,” and James squeezed his eyes shut, the tears escaping down those cheeks, but didn’t argue. Progress, maybe. At least James had remembered that rule, and wasn’t going to disagree out loud. Eventually, James might even believe him, but for now, a step forward. A small one, perhaps, but a step.

He waited, cock resting just inside those parted lips, even though his entire body was shouting at him to keep going, to take James right now, to make James moan for him, that extraordinary sound, one more time.

James opened his eyes, very slowly. Glanced up, at Michael, above him. Then back down. Then, eyes, still shut, licked the tip of Michael’s cock, very deliberately, tongue swiping through the stickiness that’d begun collecting there in anticipation.

Michael shut his eyes, too, because he had to; fought with himself, for an excruciating minute, and finally figured out how to redirect all his own desperation into control. James needed that, from him. He could do that. Really. He could.

“You like this, too, don’t you? Me on top of you, so you can’t move, so you just have to take this, to let me fuck you?” James moaned again, barely audible but completely involuntary, abandoned, wanton, the sound of absolute desire, now.

“You’d let me do anything I wanted, wouldn’t you? If I wanted to come, like this, right now, all over you?” To make the point, he slid his cock across those parted lips, pink and slack and glistening with wetness, from that mouth, from tears, from himself, already so close.

James was shaking, head to toe, eyes still closed; Michael almost requested that he open them and watch, but thought about compromises, about what James needed, and didn’t. Not yet.

“We’re not doing that, though. Well…not this time. Maybe next time.” He hadn’t expected quite so dramatic a response, but James had asked him to be more forceful, and apparently that led to interesting results. Things to remember, in the future. Definitely.

“Right now, this is about you. And me taking care of you.” When he moved, getting ready to change positions, James whimpered, as if instantly missing his presence. “Shh,” Michael said, and put a hand on his throat, lightly, no pressure at all, but knowing that James would feel the weight of it, over the collar. “You’re fine. I’m right here. I love you.” And felt the newborn apprehension ease, at the touch, at the sound of his voice.

“You really are amazing. I know you don’t think so, but you are. So I’m going to show you how much I appreciate you, all right?” James did open his eyes, at that, looking surprised; Michael couldn’t help smiling. “Still here?”

James swallowed. Winced, slightly; Michael made a mental note about how hard to push in that situation, next time. “Sorry. I—you don’t have to talk if you—”

“It’s fine. I’m wonderful. You don’t have to worry. Sir.”

Michael shook his head, said, “I fucking love you,” and then leaned down and did what he’d been planning to do and took James’s cock, achingly hard and slick at the tip with the inadvertent evidence of desire, into his own mouth.

James tried to gasp and to hold back the sound and to scream his name, all at once, and Michael licked all the way along that length, base to tip, and James shuddered, hips lifting off the bed. Perfect.

Outside, out in the night, the air changed, as well. Pressure shifts, like the sky gathering itself up for release. The morning storm, blowing back in. The promise of ozone and water in the sky. The world wanted to explode with them, too.

They didn’t do this enough, either. He knew how much James liked other things, of course, being spanked, over the bed, or the black leather of paddles warming his skin, and the sweet shock of pain and pleasure. And he liked that, too. Wanted all of it. But there were other ways to pull James over that edge, and right now he needed to get them there like this, just his hands and mouth and himself, no toys, no impersonal assistance, only the two of them, skin against skin, in bed, with the scent of imminent rain soaking into every drop of the air.

He dipped his tongue into that tantalizing slit, tasting all the moisture there. James made a noise that was practically a sob, and the hips jerked upward again. Michael pressed fingernails into the delicate inside of one pale thigh, not quite hard enough to hurt, and James shivered, but quieted at the reminder, complying.

“Good,” Michael told him, and went back to licking, stroking, caressing, every too-sensitive centimeter of skin, making James whimper and cry out for him, pausing when he felt James go abruptly rigid, hovering on the brink of the supernova. He waited, while that brightness receded enough to be just out of reach, for the moment. And then did it again.

After the third last-moment denial, James wasn’t trying to move, anymore, just lying collapsed into the embrace of the sheets, breath coming in broken tiny pants. Michael stopped touching him, for a minute; stopped everything, until James whispered his name, the syllables falling out unguarded and unrestrained, scraping past bitten lips.

“Please…”

“Please what? Tell me what you want.” That might be asking too much, but James did seem, rather astonishingly, to have held onto speech, or at least a few words, for now.

“Please let me—I have to—I can’t—you said I should tell you if—”

“Am I hurting you?”

“No…”

“Close, though? Do you want me to let you come? Now?”

“I don’t know…yes. Please. If you want me to. Sir.”

Michael breathed in, leaned over, kissed him, lightly. James opened his mouth, and kissed back, a little distant, dreamlike.

“You said I could—that you would be all right if I wanted to be inside you. One more time, tonight. Is that still okay?”

“Yes.”

“Then…legs apart. More than that. You can come when I say you can, all right?”

James just nodded, eyes closed, and the legs fell further open, inviting, across the bed. Michael dug fingernails into his own palm, fought for self-control, won, and hoped frantically that the minimum of prep he’d managed, fingers and lube slipping into that malleable space, would be enough.

James exhaled, as if letting go of all the tension in the world, when Michael entered him; they fit together easily, too easily, because James, despite wanting him now, was still stretched and loose and even a little sore, he thought, from earlier, and Michael almost came on the spot, when he inched forward and James gasped, clenched around him, and then turned his head and buried his face against Michael’s neck, shaking.

“James?”

A small headshake; waves of hair, damp with sweat, danced against his skin.

“James, I want you to look at me. Please.”

He could feel James wanting to resist that command, wanting to stay hidden, that deeply submissive impulse demanding shyness and subordination, but Michael wasn’t going to let that happen. James might be his, unquestionably, entirely, but the other side of that was true, too: he belonged to James, equally as much, every piece of him, everything inside that lit up when James smiled, or touched him, or said his name.

And this had to be about both of them, together. Because it _was_.

He could make it a little easier, though. “I _am_ giving you an order, James. Remember? You agreed to that. Eyes on me. Now.”

He felt James breathing, in and out, warmth ghosting along his skin; he hoped that’d been enough, but he could say it again, if James needed the support of the command.

But the reminder must’ve worked, because James stopped clinging to him. Settled back down into the bed. Opened those eyes, still wet at the corners but all blue and black like the searing fire of something elemental, superheated and pure. And found Michael’s gaze with his own.

“Oh, my god,” Michael breathed, unthinkingly, not even processing the words before they spilled out, “you’re fucking _beautiful_ , James, you have no idea,” and James bit his lip, as if holding back some sort of startled response, but then gave up on self-containment and laughed, once, small and bright and tentative and amazed, and Michael caught himself blinking, too, then, as the world blurred, momentarily, into a golden haze.

Once he could see again, he slid two fingers up, carefully, to that tantalizingly decorated throat. James didn’t move, gazing up at him trustingly, so he walked the fingers along the line of dark leather, feeling the thickness of it, the weight that told the watching nighttime world that James was _his_.

Curious, still checking for any change in those eyes, he tested the fit of one finger beneath the collar, finding the flutter of that pulse against his skin. It sped up, thrumming in response.

So he curled the fingers around the edges of leather, holding on. Tugged, pulling the encircling line just a tiny bit tighter. James didn’t gasp, possibly because he couldn’t, but he did go still, wholly motionless, and shut his eyes again.

Only for a split second, this time, though; Michael had been about to let go, to stop, but James _did_ open the eyes, before he’d even made a move in that direction, and kept looking at him, black nearly devouring the sea of blue. And didn’t object.

“More?” He released his hold, briefly, trying to give James the space to answer. “Or not?”

James hesitated. The eyelashes swept down, and then back up; James was making a decision. And, before speaking, looked right at him. Unprompted. “More.”

“Are you sure?”

And that question got a somewhat larger smile. “Yes, sir.”

“You trust me with this?”

“With everything.” No hesitation, this time. No reservations. Just those wide eyes, sparkling with all-encompassing joy like the exuberance of ocean waves, coiling up with tension, waiting to burst against welcoming shores in crashing release.

“I love you,” Michael told him, one more time, and James opened his mouth to answer and Michael put fingers back into the collar and twisted, and James ran out of room to reply, or speak, or breathe.

“Mine, James. I want you to know that. To feel that. When you’re wearing this—” Another tug, a bit tighter; James had begun moving, again, beneath him, not holding obediently still anymore, uncoordinated shuddering spasms that Michael could feel all around him.

“—and even when you aren’t, every time you think about it, every time you think you aren’t good enough or aren’t amazing or anything else, I want you to remember how this feels. So you know I want you. Always.”

James was trying to look at him, but couldn’t seem to focus, eyes abruptly very far away, someplace weightless and luminous and beyond awareness of anything except Michael’s voice, Michael’s hands, the tether that kept him present through all the craving, glimmering lifelines in the agonizingly ecstatic darkness, quivering on the exquisite edge of bliss and unable to tumble over on his own.

Michael, watching, found himself breathless as well. Breathless, and astounded, and unable to form any thoughts at all, except one. Except the knowledge of how unbelievably, wonderfully, undeservedly lucky he was: James wanted _him_. Trusted him, Michael, to hold onto those lifelines, to be his anchor, to bring him home.

And he could do that, for James. Could unravel him, bit by bit, when James needed to fall apart. Could hold onto him, in the face of all the endless radiance, and bring him back home. He always would.

And he was so damn grateful that he could be the one James recognized as home.

So he whispered, “I love you, and I know you need to come, so I want you to come for me, now,” and stroked his free hand across James’s aching cock, and felt James collapse into incoherence, the event horizon, the luminous fall of a singularity, space and time utterly forgotten. The gravitational pull caught him, too, enraptured, and dragged him over the brink, into sheer incandescent silence.

He could hear James breathing, after, in the stillness. Little uneven gulps of air, reassurance that he’d done everything well enough, that he’d let go and timed their release the way he’d frantically planned to, the way he’d hoped he had, even through the all the falling-star explosions. That James was here, with him, and they were both all right.

After he rediscovered his own voice, he did say, softly, “James?” and felt one more tremor run through the solid weight beneath him. Still conscious, at least mostly. Still hearing him.

“Okay. You’re okay. And I’m here. I’m holding onto you. You can relax. You don’t need to talk. Or open your eyes. Just breathe, for me, all right?”

James didn’t move, or even nod, but a little bit of the shakiness seemed to fade, in the next few inhales. Michael waited until he thought James might be able to move, and then eased himself out—which earned another twitch, a final small convulsion, instinctive reaction to renewed stimulation—and rolled over, onto his back, and gathered James up into his arms, and held him there, hands rubbing along all the scattered freckles, not hard, just trying to reaffirm the words with every other sensation, too.

“I love you. And you were—that was—that was incredible. You’re perfect. And you were so good, for me. You should know that, but if you don’t, I’ll tell you anyway. You always are.”

Out in the night, a hint of returning wind rattled the window, wistfully, as if trying to come in and help; of course even the weather cared enough to check in on James, Michael thought, and kissed the top of the fluffy-haired head, because that was the spot he could reach and he didn’t want to ask James to move.

James sighed, and curled up more closely into his hold, as if seeking comfort; Michael kissed him again. “Better?” This time he felt James nod, and the wind, having done its job, departed.

James turned his head. Pressed his lips against Michael’s shoulder, somewhere between a question and a kiss.

“I’m fine, too. I’m happy. You can take as long as you need. I’ll keep holding you, okay?”

One last nod; but then James surprised him. Of course; James could always surprise him. “You…”

“You’re—wait, you can—me what?” Not exactly eloquent, but he’d not been expecting the return of that endearingly fuzzy-textured voice any time soon, and he didn’t have any mental reserves left for sophisticated dialogue, in between all the fatigue and the lingering afterglow. “James? What about me?”

“You said you were happy…”

“I am. You don’t need to talk, you know. Not if you don’t feel up to it, yet.”

“I know…wanted to tell you, though. Me too. Happy.”

Michael laughed. Moved to kiss that spot again, and found James looking up at him, clearly with the same intent, so their lips met, instead, soft and undemanding and almost innocent in all the gentleness. “I love you. Please just relax, though, all right? For now.”

“Love you. I’m fine. Tired, though…”

“Then rest. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

“Yes, sir…” James put his head back down on Michael’s shoulder. Started to say something else, shook his head, and then just settled into place there, while the heavy peacefulness of the aftermath, the lull of the moments before the approaching storm, drifted in to surround them.

They ended up staying like that for longer than Michael’d meant to; he did want to get them into the shower, and James, who had to be exhausted, should probably eat something. But the calmness was seductive, and the bed was comfortably affectionate, and James needed to be held.

That thought provoked a few others, though, wandering in like the rainclouds, overhead. Potentially as ominous, too.

 “James?”

“Mmm…”

“Feel up to talking, yet?”

“I love you.”

“Love you. I have to ask you something. And I know you’re going to tell me I’m being stupid, but I want you to answer me anyway.”

“All right…”

“I haven’t—you’ve never felt like you had to do anything, with me, that you didn’t want to do, right? Or that’s made you uncomfortable?”

“You do remember that night about three weeks ago when you made me drink three of your martinis, in under an hour, to prove that I appreciated your bartending skills…”

“I’m surprised _you_ remember that night. And you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.” James wriggled around, in his arms. Set one hand on Michael’s chest, as a cushion, and then propped his chin on it, and studied Michael’s face. “I’m not going to tell you _you’re_ being stupid, because I know why you’re asking. It is a stupid question, though. We both know the answer already. And I could tell you that answer again right now, but I assume, since you did ask, you want me to actually at least pretend to think about it.”

“Yes, please.”

“Fine, then.” James did go quiet, momentarily, eyes not leaving Michael’s but a little pensive, obviously flipping through various memories, as requested. Michael waited; he was ninety-nine percent certain that he did know the answer, but there was that spiky nagging one percent of doubt, and he’d had to ask, to find out for sure.

A minute of contemplative silence went past. And then another.

Outside, the rain crashed into existence, with a sky-splitting burst of thunder. Michael flinched, mentally cursed his sudden idiotic skittishness, and tightened his arms a little more securely around James, who didn’t appear to have noticed the tactless interruptions of the weather.

A few more seconds, all of them noisily rain-filled, passed.

Michael stared at the blue eyes. Willed James to speak up. Tried to glance surreptitiously at the clock. It sat there just out of his line of sight, and mocked him with plastic imperturbability.

James was still being quiet. Too quiet; oh, god, there must be something, there had to be something, he couldn’t imagine what, too many possibilities out of everything they’d done up to now, but one of those possibilities _had_ to be something painful, because otherwise James would’ve reassured him by now, would have said that everything was fine, and Michael’s heart had apparently decided that now would be a great time to not work properly anymore, because it felt numb, because it was one unspoken sentence away from being broken.

“James?” he got out, through lips that didn’t seem to want to belong to him any longer.

“Hmm?” James said, all wide-eyed innocence, “oh, sorry, were you still waiting for an answer, because I couldn’t come up with anything, of course not, I’m sorry, did I forget to tell you?”

“Oh you fucking evil tiny bastard,” Michael said, and then remembered how to breathe, and think, and stay alive.

James had started laughing, now. “Oh, come on, you entirely deserved that. For asking me that, and for thinking I would actually need to think about it. Of course there isn’t anything; you know that. I’m sorry, though; I suppose that was kind of mean to you. I didn’t really scare you, that badly, did I?”

“Yes!”

“Oh. Really? Oh…I am sorry, then. More sorry. I love you, and everything’s been fantastic, and no, I’ve never felt like I’ve had to say yes to anything that I didn’t want; I’ve never not been happy, with you, and I _have_ said something, and I know you know this, the one or two times when I did feel less than sure about anything. Like with the blindfolds. Or tonight when I asked you not to use the vibrator. And you’ve always listened. So we’re good. We’re wonderful. Does that make you feel any better?”

“…yes. Yes. Thank you.”

“Also, was that a height-related insult? Because that’s just uncalled for.”

“You’re _my_ fucking evil tiny bastard and I love you.”

“I love you, too. And I’m sorry again. I really was thinking about it, at least for a while; I wasn’t actively trying to make you worry. Well, not until I saw you attempting to have a staring contest with the clock. Then I thought, if you were going to be timing my answer, I should get to have some fun with you. I didn’t think you’d be that concerned.”

“Of course I am. I know—I mean, you—you said you could talk about it, now. Those things. But I’m never not going to be concerned.”

“Never…Can I ask _you_ something, this time?”

“Of course. Though I’m reserving the right to give you a heart attack in return. Revenge, James. It isn’t fun.”

“Well, you can try. But I did want to know…I was thinking…I’ve never asked you this, and I probably should, though I have apologized for it, or I think I have. Have I? Because if not, then I will.”

“You realize I have absolutely no idea what you’ve just said.”

“Oh…sorry.” James nibbled on that lower lip; it was turning red, with all the abuse. Michael sighed. Freed a hand, reluctantly, and used it to poke him in the ribs. “Stop that. Just ask me whatever it is. I’ll answer you, I promise. As long as you manage to come up with a sentence that makes normal-person sense, this time.”

“No promises about the making-sense part…I was just wondering, do you ever mind? Me, I mean. All this. The things that…that make you angry, when I tell you. Me needing…a lot of reassurance, sometimes. I know you never expected—when we started all of this it was just sex, and I know you say you love me, but you never asked for any of this, you didn’t know about all my—so do you ever get, um, tired of—that?”

That final word was an obvious substitution; Michael heard the shorter word, the pronoun that James didn’t say, and for a second found himself literally shaking with rage, the white heat of it bursting through his bones and making his hands tighten themselves into fists, unbidden, with the need to do something, to find someone, _that_ person, and commit some sort of violent and terminal act.

But James was looking at him, those spectacular eyes tentative and open and sincerely questioning, and Michael ordered his homicidally-inclined heart to calm the hell down and put both hands on James’s face, cupping those tear-marked cheeks with his palms, running his thumbs along starburst patterns of familiar freckles.

“No. I don’t. I told you once that I would always be there for you. Forever, James. I meant that. And of course I wish things were different—I wish you had never had to—I hate even knowing that someone hurt you, ever. I’d, I don’t know, invent fucking time travel and go back and fix everything for you, if I could—” James almost laughed, at that, and some of the hesitance, in the seawater eyes, dissolved.

“—and I can’t do that, but I can do this, I can listen to you if you want to tell me things, even if they make me angry, and I can hold you if you want that and I can reassure you for fucking ever if you need me to. And I’m not ever going to get tired of you, or of being here for you, if you say it’s helping even a little bit, I can do all of that, for as long as you need. And I don’t just say I love you. I do love you. You—I thought you knew that. Know that. You should know that.”

“I do.” James was smiling, and maybe crying, or not quite crying; there was a noticeable gleam in those eyes that wasn’t from the bedside lamps, but the shininess hadn’t spilled over, yet. Michael brushed one thumbtip along wet eyelashes, carefully.

“Do you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I just had to know. Because maybe you were—I don’t know, resenting me, or not liking all the neediness, or something, you can feel both, you know, even if you love me you might—and you got your stupid question of the night, so I should get to ask mine, right?”

“You should never have to ask that one. And you don’t ever have to apologize for those things, either. Someone should. _To_ you. But not you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t’ve needed to ask yours, either. But you did, and I did, and I love you. And you love me. So…sort of even, then? Except for the part where you called me tiny.”

“You are.”

“I am not. Only when I stand next to you.”

“Or any other normal human being. I like that you’re tiny. I can hold you. Like this.”

“Mmm…I think you’ve called me abnormal twice now, and I should want to punch you in the face, but I’m very comfortable at the moment.”

“The first one was about your sentences, not your stature. Though the adjective still applies. You said comfortable; you are feeling all right, really?”

“Am I…you realize I’m feeling wonderful, after all of this. Tired, but wonderful.”

“I meant—you know I didn’t just mean that.”

“I know. And yes. Still wonderful. And thank you.” James tipped his head up; they lay there face to face, noses practically touching, arms around each other in the disaster they’d made of the bed, surrounded by the blissful drumbeats of the rain against the glass. James smiled, meeting his eyes; after a second, Michael found himself smiling, too.

“Can I…I think I should probably take this…” He trailed fingers along the leather; it’d warmed up along the way, basking in the heat of their skin, the intimacy, the euphoria, and it greeted the touch gladly, knowing as vividly as they did how well the night’d gone. “…off of you, now.”

James grinned. “For now.”

“For now?”

“You didn’t think, when I said you could put it on me, that I only meant this once, did you? Because I’m pretty sure we both appreciated the result.”

“Have I already told you that you’re amazing? Because you are.”

“I don’t know, I think you’re pretty amazing, yourself. You definitely have some enjoyable fantasies about me.”

“James,” Michael said, helplessly, honestly, “you _are_ all of my fantasies,” and James laughed, the sound echoed, playfully, by the rain.

“So that’s perfect, then, because—”

“Oh, come on, no comments, please, I did mean it, and yes, I know it was a terrible line—”

“—you’re all of mine, too.”


End file.
